


A Sword that Cuts Both Ways

by MilesHibernus



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Battle for Azeroth, Gen, Genocide, War of the Thorns, the burning of teldrassil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-12
Updated: 2018-10-12
Packaged: 2019-07-30 00:32:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16275524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MilesHibernus/pseuds/MilesHibernus
Summary: Rukhbar is loyal to the Warchief, but the cracks are starting to show.





	A Sword that Cuts Both Ways

“Grom’s balls!” Rukhbar hissed at the dripping side-wound. Scouting shouldn’t result in combat, not if you’re doing it right. He had surveyed the whole area and was now just waiting for his partner to return to their rendezvous point. But he'd been spotted, claws from thin air that had shimmered into a huge cat. At least he’d given as well as got. He straightened, panting, as the cat-form on the ground melted into a night elf. She was growing pale already, fading from the color of violets to lavender, and he supposed his last sword stroke had hit something more vital than he’d realized in the heat of the fight.

He jabbed his sword into the turf and scraped his belt pouch open. The dying elf watched him with wary eyes that widened when he pulled a vial out. He could tell the thick red liquid wouldn’t be enough to get her back on her feet, but it would keep her alive till he and Celebiriel could get her to someone who could take charge of her. He held it up and spoke one of the few words of Common he knew: “Yes?”

The night elf drew a deep breath, winced, and nodded. Rukhbar thumbed off the cap of the vial and knelt at her side. Intent on steadying her head, he failed to notice that the hand not clutching her wound held a knife, which she drove at his throat with surprising strength. He batted her hand aside at the last second, with a shallow stinging gash to show for his inattention, and snarled reflexively. She matched the expression, her predator’s teeth gleaming even in the shadows under the gnarled trees, but the movement had disturbed her fragile equilibrium and a rush of blood carried her spirit from her body.

“Fah!” he huffed, sitting back on his heels. He looked at the open vial in his hand, shrugged, and swallowed its contents. His various wounds closed immediately and he dabbed at the remaining blood with his sleeve. “Fool,” he said to the corpse. “There’s no dishonor in being a prisoner.”

“She cared not about honor,” said a cool voice behind him.

Rukhbar turned to see his partner stepping into the little clearing, and snorted. Like many of her kind Celebiriel spoke the Tongue as if she’d learned it from the oldest sagas, but scornful amusement was clear in her tone. “What would you know about it?” he asked, rising. Blood elves were uncanny enough, but Celebiriel had joined the tribe of the Great Betrayer Illidan, and as far as he was concerned such had no honor, only utility.

“Of honor, little enough,” she said. “But who would know more of vengeance than I?” 

“It was a fair fight,” Rukhbar retorted, in no mood for a demon hunter’s contemptuous _What have you given_ —they acted as if only they had ever made sacrifices. “She attacked me.” He pulled his sword from its place in the ground and wiped it on the leaf-mold to clean it.

Still amused and calm as a placid lake, Celebiriel said, “Not vengeance for herself, child." Rukhbar didn’t bristle at that; he supposed that to someone several hundred years old, any of his kind looked young. “Vengeance for her home, for the Crown of the Earth. For Teldrassil.”

He stopped in mid-motion and said tightly, “The Warchief had her reasons.”

“The Warchief is mad,” Celebiriel said flatly, the tiny smile suddenly gone from her face. “I was there. She burnt the Crown for no reason other than to spite a dying woman, to kill her hope. I heard it from her own lips.”

Rukhbar’s grip on the sword-hilt had shifted. “You’re speaking treason,” he told her, surprised at his own forcefulness.

She shrugged. “I speak but the truth. Thousands perished in the flames of the Crown, and few enough were warriors. Shopkeeps, farmers, children all, Sylvanas cared not. And you yet follow her, as do I. Yon kaldora trusted you not to deal honorably with a prisoner, and e’en had you, she would not stay in your charge forever.”

“Even a shopkeeper can aim an arrow,” Rukhbar said. “And nits make lice.” He had to admit he had not liked some of the things he’d seen in the prisoner-camp near the great Zandalari city, but everyone knew Horde prisoners did no better, for all the Alliance made a show of how merciful and 'humane' they were.

Rukhbar could feel Celebiriel's ruined eyes boring into his despite the blindfold that covered them. “We speak not of lice, but of sensible people, e’en as you and I are sensible. Think well on’t.” She turned her back on him and walked away, her bright hair melting into the gloom with eerie speed.

Rukhbar finished sheathing his sword, unsettled, and swung his pack onto his shoulder. He would make his report and ask to be matched with some other partner the next time he made one of these scouting trips, that was all. What did her opinion matter, when she had no honor of her own?

It was a long, silent walk back to the camp.

**Author's Note:**

> I might have some feelings about being a Hordie right now.


End file.
